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DESTROYERS 

AND  OTHER 

VERSES 


BY 

HENRY  HEAD,  M.D.,  F.R.S. 


HUMPHREY   MILFORD 

Oxford  University  Press 

London     •     Edinburgh    *     Glasgow    •     New  York 
Toronto    •    Melbourne    *    Cape  Town    *    Bombay 

J919 


Grateful  acknowledgments  for  their 
courtesy  in  giving  permission  to 
republish  some  of  these  Verses  are 
due  to  the  following  periodical 
Reviews  : 

To  TIhe  Yale  Reviezv,  Newhaven, 
Con.,  for  "  I  cannot  Stand  and 
Wait,"  "Destroyers,"  and  "Died 
of  His  Wounds." 

To  The  English  Review  for  "  Homing 
Wings"  and  "The. Price." 

.To  The.  fdutltvlAview  for  "To 
Courage,'  Seated'."  *  *  , . . 


To  Her 

without  whose  touch  the 

strings  would  have   been 

mute 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/destroyersothervOOheadrich 


I  9 1 4  TO   1 9 1  8 


1914  TO  1918 

I  CANNOT  STAND  AND  WAIT. 

How  can.  I  serve  who  am  too  old  to  fight? 

I  cannot  ^and  and  wait 

With  folded  hands,  and  lay  me   down   at 

night 
In  re ^1  ess  expeiflation  that  the  day 
Will  bring  some  ^oke  of  Fate 
I  cannot  help  to   ^y. 

Once,  like  the  spider  in  his  patterned  web, 
Based  on  immutable  law. 
Boldly  I  spun  the  ^ands  of  arduous 

thought. 
Now  seeming  naught, 
Rent  in  the  sudden  hurricane  of  war. 

Within  my  comer  I  will  take  my  place, 

And  grant  me  gprace 

Some  delicate  thing  to  perfect  and  complete 

With  passionate  contentment,  as  of  old 

Before  my  heart  grew  cold. 

This  in  the  Temple  I  will  dedicate, 

A  widow's  mite. 

Among  more  precious  gifts,  obscured  from 

sight 
By  the  maje^c  panoply  of  ^late. 
But  when  triumphal  candles  have  burned 

low 
And  valorous  trophies  crumbled  into  du^, 
Perchance  my  gift  may  glow, 
Still  radiating  sacrificial  joy 
Amid  the  ravages  of  moth  and  du^. 


I9I4  '^o  I9I8 

HOMING  WINGS. 

Poised  like  the  black-winged  swallow  born 

to  roam 
And  find  a  living  in  the  ambient  air, 
We  sacrificed  our  home 
For  unpolluted  realms  of  natural  law. 
Mu^  we  despair 

Because  the  neutral  tissue  of  our  dreams 
Dissolves  like  ravelled  mi^  before  the  heat, 
And  at  our  feet 

The  radiant  prospedt  of  this  ancient  land. 
Grey  hamlets,  happy  fields,  seque^ered 

^eams, 
Unconquerable  ^nd? 
E  'en  the  world-wandering  bird  suspends 

her  ne^ 
Beneath  the  overhanging  cottage  eaves 
In  fecund  re^; 
And  breezes  ocean-bom 
In  brooding  oaks  scarce  ^r  the  crumpled 

leaves, 
Where  poppies  flame  among  the  ripening 

com. 
So  we  return  to  worship  homely  things. 
That  filled  our  baby  hands,  ance^al  springs 
Resurgent  and  intense 
Stirring  the  reverent  heart 
Of  childhood's  innocence. 


I  9  14  TO   igi8 
PARIS.    APRIL,  1916. 

"//s  paniaient  notre  esprit^  jamais  notre  endurance." 

How  silent  are  the  .^eets  of  this  grave 

town; 
Discordant  vanity  is  swept  away, 
And  mourners  everywhere  pass  (up  and 

down, 
Sombring  the  radiance  of  an  April  day. 
Here  all  men  wear  the  inward,  brooding 

look 
Of  a  young  mother,  when  her  time  is  near, 
Devoid  of  fear. 

She  knows  the  agony  pf  hope  ^U-bom, 
And,  once  before,  her  body  racked  and  torn 
Was  at  the  la^  denied  its  vidtory. 

How   can  we  under^nd, 

Whose  land  inviolate  was  clogged  with 

dreams  ? 
They  with  a  single  purpose  are  imbued, 
That  like  a  mighty  river  onward  ^eams 
In  multitudinous   channels  ruthlessly, 
Pa^  tangled  isles  and  barriers  of  sand, 
Until  its  irresi^ble  waters  roll 
To  their  triumphal  goal. 
With   all-embracing,  silent  fortitude. 


1914   TO    igi8 

THE  PRICE. 

Night  hovers  blue  above  the  sombre  square, 
The  solitary  amber  lanterns  throw 
A  soft  penumbra  on  the  path  below, 
And    through    the   plumed   pavilion   of   the 

trees 
A  solemn  breeze 

Bears  faintly  from  the  river  midnight  bells; 
While  at  this  peaceful  hour  my  spirit  tells 
Its  tale  of  arduous  joys. 
Pain  conquered,  Fear  resolved,  or  Hope 

regained. 
Swift  recognition  of  some  law  divine, 
Shy  gratitude  that  could  not  be  regained, 
All  these  were  mine. 
And  so,  supremely  ble^, 
I  sink  to  re^. 

Through  labyrinthine  sleep  I  grope  my  way. 
Feeble  of  purpose,  sick  at  heart,  and  sure 
Some  unknown  ill  will  lead  my  ^eps  a^ay. 
Till,   cold  and  gray. 
The  dawn  rays  through  piy  shuttered 

windows  steal 
And  with  closed  eyes  I  thank  my  God  for 

light. 
For  the  fierce  purpose  of  another  day. 
When  work  and  thought  forbid  the  heart 

to  feel. 


10 


I  9  I  4  TO   1 9  I  8 

DESTROYERS. 

On  this  primeval  ^Irip  of  we^em  land, 
With   purple  bays  and  tongues  of  shining 

sand, 
Time,  like  an  echoing  tide. 
Moves   drowsily  in  idle  ebb  and  flow; 
The  sunshine  slumbers  in  the  tangled  grass 
And  homely  folk  with  simple  gfreeting  pass. 
As  to  their  worship  or  their  work  they  go. 
Man,  earth,  and  sea 
Seem  linked  in  elemental  harmony, 
And  my  insurgent  sorrow  finds  release 
In  dreams  of  peace. 

But  silent,  gray. 

Out  of  the  curtained  haze, 

Across  the  bay 

Two  fierce  de^oyers  glide  with  bows 

a-foam 
And   predatory  gaze, 

Like  cormorants  that  seek  a  submerged  prey. 
An  angel  of  de^udlion  guards  the  door 
And  keeps  the  peace  of  our  ance^al  home ; 
Freedom  to  dream,  to  work,  and  to  adore, 
These   vagrant   days,  nights  of  untroubled 

breath, 
Are  bought  with  death. 


xz 


1914   TO    I  9  I  8 

DIED  OF  HIS  WOUNDS. 

Death  set  his  mark  and  left  a  mangled  thing, 
With  palsied  limbs  no  jscience  could  re^ore, 
To  weary  out  the  weeks  or  months  or  years, 
Amid^  the   tumult  of  -a  mother's   tears 
Behind  the  sick-room  door, 
Where  tender  skill  and  subtle  knowledge 

bring 
Brief  respite  only  from  ,the  ultimate 
Decree  of  fate. 

Then,   like  the   flowers  we  planted   in   his 

room. 
Bud  after  bud  we  watched  his  soul  unfold; 
Each    delicate   bloom 
Of  alaba^er,  violet,  and  gold 
Struggled   to   light. 
Drawing   its  vital  breath 
Within  the  pallid  atmosphere  of  death. 

That  valiant  spirit  has  not  passed  away, 

But  lives  and  grows 

Within   us,  as  a  penetrating  ray 

Of  sunshine   on  a  iCry^lal  surface  glows 

With  many-hued  refradlion.    He  has  fled 

Into  the  unknown  silence  pf  the  night. 

But  cannot  die  till  human  hearts  are  dead. 


12 


1914   TO   igi8 

EPIPHANY. 

No   starry  candles  lit  this  fe^l  time, 
And  round  our  Twelfth  iNight  table  there 

was   none 
Who  did  not  mourn  a  husband,  brother,  son 
Gone  in  his  prime;- 

Not  with  the  cu^omary  pomp  of  death, 
With    sick-bed  ritual  and  with   flickering* 

breath. 
But  like  the  blossom  of  tempe^hious  May, 
In  one  night  swept  away; 
And  of  its  radiance  no  memorial  seen 
Beyond  the  empty  place  where  it  had  been. 

So   we  ^land  sorrow-laden  at  the  fea^, 
Where  wisdom  knelt  in  homage  to  a  Child, 
And   three  world-weary  pilgrims  from   the 

Ea^ 
Laid  at  His  feet 

Gold,  and  a  healing  balm,  and  odours  sweet. 
We  too  mu^  bring  our  offering,  pay  the 

price 
To  gain  the  goal  of  sacramental  peace? 
Where  doubts  dissolve,  insurgent  longings 

cease, 
And  sorrow  is  sublimed  in  sacrifice. 


13 


I  9  I  4  TO  I  9  I  8 

TO   COURAGE,   SEATED. 

We   wandered  through  the   chill  autumnal 

Park, 
And  spoke  of  courage  and  the  youthful  (dead, 
And  how  the  bolder  spirit  may  be  cowed 
By  indiscriminate  terror.     Overhead, 
The  moon  rode  high  on  her  prede^ned  arc, 
Steadfa^  through  tidal  waves  of  sombre 

cloud. 
Like  vast  antennae,  search-lights  swept  the 

sky. 
When,   suddenly,  as  if  in  swift  reply, 
Out  of  the  south,  with  jets  of  luminous 

smoke, 
And  coughing  clatter,  hidden  guns  awoke. 

And  we  fell  silent  at  the  thought  of  death. 
We  were  too  old  to  leap  with  panting  breath 
Into  the  turmoil  of  the  bloody  ^ife. 
And  dance  upon  the  razor-edge  of  life 
To  fame  or  to  oblivion.    We  must  wait 
Like  senators  of  old,  with  folded  hands, 
In  silence,  seated,  for  the  ^oke  of  Fate. 
One  boon  alone  an  ardent  soul  demands, 
To  die  before  its  passion  waxes  cold. 
Enthusiasm  fails,  or  Love  grows  old. 


14 


I914    TO    1918 

ELAN  VITAL. 

All   things   that  live  and  grow  are   full  of 

hope. 
The  slender  primrose  on  the  woodland 

slope, 
Tangled   and   overgrown, 
Unfolds  its  crumpled  florets  one  by  one 
To  seek  the  sun; 
The  snow-bound  crocus  thru^  an  amber 

cone 
Through  frozen  earth;  even  the  fallen  elm 
Fringes  with  tender  green  its  ancient  bole. 
But  Death  exacits  a  toll 
From   Beauty,  Courage,  innocent  Desire, 
And  tempers  overwhelm 
The  fruit-tree  blossom,  trampled  in  the  mire, 
Sweet  harbinger  of  unfulfilled  delight. 

When  terror  keeps  the  watches  of  the  night 

And  childhood's  faith  is  gone. 

And  passion  spent. 

We  dagger  to  our  feet  and  thimble  on 

In  pain,  in  sorrow  and  bewilderment 

Impelled  to  hope  by  man's  in^ndlive  soul. 


K 


I  9  I  4  TO   I  g  I  8 

PEGASUS. 

The  wind  is  ^11;  from  far  and  wide  the  air 
Resounds  with  Sabbath  bells,  calling  to 

prayer, 
And  from  the  va^,  unfathomable  blue 
Hums  a  propeller's  penetrating  drone. 
We  ^land  enchanted,  and  our  eyes  pursue 
An  aeroplane,  that  climbs  the  summer  sky 
To  drift  alone 

On  mountainous  clouds  of  ever-virgin  snow^, 
Suspended  like  a  black-winged  dragon-fly, 
That  turning  gleams. 

Dove-gray  and  silver  in  the  morning  beams ; 
Or  like  a  dead  leaf,  loosened  from  a  height, 
Spins  in  its  perilous  flight. 
We  catch  our  breath  like  children  at  a  show, 
Of  martial  music  and  heroic  deeds, 
On  every  glittering  incident  intent, 
Forgetting  for  a  time  terresTrial  creeds 
For  joy  that  man  now  rides  the  firmament. 


i6 


SONGS    OF  LA  MOUCHE 


"LA   MOUCHE." 

Elise  K ,  or,  as  she  preferred  to  be 

called  in  later  life,  "  Camille  Selden,"  was 
bom  in  Saxony  in  1829.  She  was  adopted 
in  infancy  by  a  childless  married  couple, 
and  her  fo^er  parents  emigrated  to  Paris 
whil^  she  was  ^11  young. 

In  Augu^,  1847,  her  fo^er  father  went 
to  America  to  found  a  business,  and  she 
accompanied  him  as  far  as  Havre.  On  the 
return  journey  from  Havre  to  Paris,  she 
travelled  with  Alfred  Meissner,  the  Au^rian 
poet  and  play-wright,  then  a  young  man 
forced  to  travel  abroad  for  a  time  by  the 
political  unre^  in  Bohemia.  The  day  after 
this  encounter  Meissner  left  Paris  for  Ger- 
many, and  knew  his  fellow  traveller  by  the 
name  of  "  Margot "  only. 

In  1849,  Meissner  was  again  in  Paris. 
One    April    morning,   whil^    sitting   in    his 

19 


SONGS  OF  LA  MOUCHE 

hotel,  he  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from 
"  Margot,"  who,  hearing  he  had  returned, 
obtained  his  address  from  a  bookseller. 
This  meeting  was  the  forerunner  of  a  num- 
ber of  excursions  in  and  around  Paris.  But 
"  Margot  "  his  friend  ^ill  remained,  and  she 
forbade  him  to  enquire  who  she  was  and 
whence  she  came.  This  friendship  was 
ended  in  May  by  Meissner's  journey  to 
England. 

In  July  of  the  same  year  when  walking 
down  Regent  Street,  he  saw  two  ladies 
alight  from  a  carriage  in  front  of  a  jeweller's 
shop.  In  spite  of  her  changed  surroundings, 
he  fancied  the  younger  mu^  be  "  Margot," 
and  rushing  forward  through  the  crowd  im- 
petuously greeted  her  by  her  pet  name— the 
only  name  he  knew.  She  "  regretted  that 
Monsieur  had  made  a  mi^ke  as  she  had 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  him." 

Then  followed  "  Camille  Selden's "  im- 
happy  marriage  to  a  Frenchman  who  ran 
through  her  money,  and  shut  her  up  in  a 
lunatic  asylum.  She  was,  however,  speedily 
released,  and  shortly  afterwards  obtained  a 
separation  from  her  husband. 

In  1855  she  was  living  in  Paris  with  her 
mother,  supporting  herself  by  teaching. 
Heine  had  always  been  one  of  her  heroes, 
and    a    chance    commission    gave    her   the 

20 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

opportunity  of  calling  upon  him  in  the 
Avenue  Matignon.  He  was  entirely  con- 
fined to  his  bed  by  the  disease  that  ulti- 
mately proved  fatal,  and  found  pleasure  in 
her  brightness  and  in  the  activity  of  her 
mind.  He  begged  her  to  repeat  her  visits, 
and  under  the  name  of  "  La  Mouche,"  she 
adted  as  his  secretary,  companion,  and 
translator  of  his  poems  into  French. 

This  association  was  only  broken  in  June, 

1855,  by  a  journey  to  the  Black  Fore^, 
undertaken  on  account  of  her  health.  After 
her  return  in  July,  her  visits  to  Heine  were 
of  almo^  daily  occurrence,  in  spite  of  the 
jealousy  of  his  wife,  "  Frau  Mathilde,"  who 
saw  the  place  she  had  voluntarily  resigned 
in  her  daily  search  for  pleasure,  filled  by 
another. 

After    Heine's    death,   on    February    17th, 

1856,  Meisaner  was  sent  to  Paris  by  the 
publishers,  to  save,  if  possible,  Heine's 
papers  from  the  de^trudlive  adlivity  of  his 
wife.  Whil^  engaged  upon  this  work,  he 
again  met  his  "  Margot,"  whose  identity 
with  Heine's  "  Mouche  "  he  had  not  sus- 
pected. She  took  him  to  her  home,  poured 
out  before  him  the  letters  and  poems  sent 
to  her  by  the  poet,  and  permitted  him  to 
publish  some  of  them  in  his  memoir  of 
Heine, 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

"  Camille  Selden  "  then  disappeared  from 
hi^ory  until  1885,  virhen  she  published 
"  Les  derniers  Jours  de  Henri  Heine,"  as 
a  monument  of  their  friendship. 

She  died  in  1896,  at  Rouen,  where  she  had 
long  been  teaching. 


92 


PART  I. 
ALFRED  MEISSNER. 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
The  Journey  from  Havre. 

We  raced  through  midsummer  weather- 

A  du^  cloud  danced  in  the  heat- 
Through  a  country  of  gardens  and 
orchards 
And  patches  of  simmering  wheat. 

You  spoke  of  the  chances  that  made  you 

An  exile  in  foreign  lands, 
Of  life  and  death  and  hereafter— 

But  gazed  on  my  slender  hands. 

"  Thrones  totter  and  empires  crumble, 

The  times  are  in  a  whirl " — 
And  then  your  thoughts  went  wandering 

In  the  tangle  of  a  curl. 

But  when  it  came  to  parting, 
You  were  dumb,  for  you  dared  not 
speak 

A  wish  that  was  bom  of  the  dimple 
That  ne^les  in  either  cheek. 

The  dingy  lamplight  flickered, 
But  a  silver  midsummer  moon 

Smiled  through  the  dusky  branches 
On  the  joy  of  an  unasked  boon. 

Paris,  Aa^astf  1847. 

as 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Masqueraders, 

Life  is  but  a  masquerade— 

You  mu^  choose  some  well-wom  part, 
Play,  and  be  for  playing  paid, 

Take   your  money  and  depart. 

Yet  the  spangled  Harlequin, 

Agile  dandy  full  of  je^, 
Hides  beneath  a  cloak  of  sin 

The  my^ic's  heart  within  his  brea^. 

Columbine  with  flaunting  frills 

Makes  an  all-devoted  wife; 
Gigantic  hidden  laughter  fills 

The  fur-robed  Docflor's  solemn  life. 

And  the  slippered  Pantaloon 

Suffers  from  a  broken  heart, 
Sings  his  sorrows  to  the  moon. 

Tender  l5rrics,  full  of  art. 

So  beneath  each  daily  task 

Life  flows  on,  a  hidden  ^eam— 

Every  wise  man  wears  a  mask. 
Only  fools  are  what  they  seem. 

Paris,  April,   1849. 


26 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
In  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg. 

My  idle  hours  of  spring 
Beneath  the  chestnut  trees 

Float  on  like  clouds  that  ^ing 
White  streamers  to  the  breeze. 

Eiach  thought  that  upward  floats 
Its  wanton  course  doth  take, 

Wind-tossed  like  baby  boats 
Upon  a  mimic  lake. 

My  spirit  leaps  and  bounds, 
Propelled  by  childish  joy. 

And  merrily  resounds 

With  laugh  of  girl  and  boy. 

Come  where  the  chestnut  trees 
Their  new-found  shadows  fling, 

Ca^  care  away  and  seize 
The  idle  hours  of  spring. 

Parisy  Spring,  1849. 


27 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Watteauesque. 

There  he  ^ands,  in  exquisite  array, 

Bending  forward  with  half-opened  lips. 

Wondering  if  perchance  he  dare  to  pay 
Homage  to  her  rosy  finger  tips. 

She  is  gay  with  every  tender  grace, 

Artificial,  admirably  vain — 
And  the  smile  on  her  averted  face 

Fills  his  shallow  heart  with  jealous  pain. 

Overhead  the  pearly  ^orm  clouds  brood ; 

To  the  twang  of  lute  and  mandolin, 
She  mu^  be  fanta^ically  wooed. 

Prelude  to  a  love  he  cannot  win. 

Hand  in  hand  we'll  dance  a  little  while. 
As  they  danced  a  hundred  years  ago ; 

Then  you  *11  ask  my  favour— I  shall  smile, 
And  our  separate  journeys  we  will  go. 

Paris,  Spring,   1849. 


28 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Sur  la  Rive  Gauche. 

My  heart  is  full  of  music, 

For  the  world  is  a-dance  to-day, 

And  my  feet  go  tripping,  tripping 
To  the  melody  of  May. 

The  hum  of  a  birring  city 
Comes  pulsing  up  and  down, 

Wind  borne  across  the  river 
The  cadence  of  the  town* 

And  ^urdy  plane-trees  glimmer 
Grey  through  the  eddying  du^— 

Their  leaves  like  paper  windmills 
Whirl  in  each  tiny  gu^. 

Bright  ripples  in  the  sunshine 
Go  waltzing  down  the  ^eam, 

And  gaily  set  to  corners 
At  every  balk  and  beam. 

I  wonder  waiting,  waiting. 
Will  my  lover's  heart  be  gay. 

Attuned  to  the  generous  piping 
And  melody  of  May. 

Parisj  Sprini,   1849. 


29 


PART  II. 

HEINRICH  HEINE. 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

The  New  Sprini. 

A  March  wind  whirls  and  eddies 
In  gu^s  of  rain  and  sleet, 

I  ^land  at  my  lonely  window 
And  gaze  on  the  empty  ^eet. 

In  a  lull  of  the  boi^erous  whirlwind 
Floats   upward  from  afar 

A  thin  metallic  tinkle, 
The  twang  of  a  guitar. 

The  dreamy  warmth  of  girlhood 
Comes  back  to  me  again, 

And  my  fingers  are  idly  beating 
Time  on  the  window-pane. 

Pari*,  1855. 


33 


SONGS   OF  LA   MOUCHE 

Mother  of  Heaven,  I  pray  thee 
Hear  but  this  prayer  of  mine, 

And  my  scoffing  lover  shall  worship 
Each  Sunday  at  thy  shrine. 

Let  him  rise  again  and  ^tand  upright, 

Heal  thou  his  hideous  pain: 
Let  him  see  the  leaves  in  the  spring-time, 

The  sweet  earth  after  rain. 

Perhaps  his  sins  are  so  many 
Thou  wilt  not  make  him  whole; 

Grant  only  that  on  crutches 

He  may  come,  to  save  his  soul. 

For  thy  great  fame  'twere  better 
He  were  not  healed  outright: 

For  then  no  shrine  he  'd  visit. 
But  roy^er  through  the  night. 

Paris,  Aprils   1855. 


34 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

My  tender  ways  and  laughter 
Have  gained  me  lovers  twain. 

I  flouted  the  one,  but  the  other 
I  bitterly  love  again. 

One  loved  me  for  my  great  virtue; 

I  was  sweet,  and  pure,  and  good. 
He  worshipped  in  me  incarnate, 

My^erious  womanhood. 

To  the  other  my  soul  lies  open — 
I  never  oould  play  my  part- 
He  thinks  that  virtue  's  scarcely 
The  thing  I  've  mo^  at  heart 

Paris,  May,  1855. 


35 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Fantasy. 

The  Poplars  on  the  highway, 

Court   ladies  all  a-row, 
Bowed  whispering  "  May  good  fortune 

Attend  the  way  you  go." 

I  left  my  home  in  the  sunshine, 
I  rode  in  a  coach  and  four, 

But  now  with  the  world  behind  me, 
I  creep  to  my  father's  door. 

And  the  Poplars  in  the  night-wind 

Rock  groaning  to  and  fro. 
They  hiss  like  village  gossips, 

"  *Tis  right  the  world  should  know." 

German^f  ]une^  1855. 


36 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
The  Post. 

Hark!  a  di^ant  po^-horn  winding 
Underneath   the  purple  hills, 

Sets  my  languid  pulses  racing 
Like   the   tumbling  mountain-rills. 

See,  the  slow  po^-carriage  crawling 

Like   a  little  yellow  toy. 
Cracking  whip,  and  three  white  horses 

Fill  my  silly  heart  with  joy. 

Hark!    I  hear  the  po^-bells  jangle, 
And  the  drum  of  clattering  hoofs 

Comes  to  me  in  w^indy  snatches 
Up  above  the  pointed  roofs. 

See,  it  halts  before  the  po^-house; 

And  the  message  that  it  brings. 
Stirs  within  me  depths  of  gladness, 

And  the  flutter  of  Love's  wings. 

The  Black  Forest,  1855. 


37 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

La^  night  the  summer  thunder 
Lashed  the  dark  wood  with  rain: 

I  lie  at  ease  and  wonder, 
It  is  so  ^11  again. 

The  silver  rain-drops  glitter 
And  patter  to  the  ground: 

Birds  call  and  chirp  and  twitter, 
A  happy  di^ant  sound. 

Now  we  sleep  far  asunder. 

And  I  lie  here  alone 
So   peacefully,  I  wonder 

How  calm  my  love  has  grown. 

The  Black  Forest,  1855. 


38 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Home-coming. 

Where  men  of  every  nation 
Go  up  and  down  the  Rhine, 

Within  Cologne  Cathedral 
Three  wise  men  have  a  shrine. 

League  upon  league  in  the  darkness, 
By  the  light  of  a  shining  ^r, 

To  seek  their  soul's  salvation. 
They  journey'd  from  afar. 

But  when  they  turned  them  hom-eward, 
No  ^r  was  then  in  sight, 

Deep  in  each  heart  lay  treasured 
The  memory  of  its  light. 

By  the  light  of  your  love  I  have 
travelled, 

Till  I  'm  weary  and  sick  and  sore, 
But  I  dread  my  lonely  journey, 

When  that  ^lar  will  shine  no  more. 

Coloine,  July,  1855. 


39 


SONGS  OF  LA  MOUCHE 

Augu^  is  blazing  through  the   dingy  win- 
dow; 

Splotches  of  sunlight  on  carpet,  wall  and 
ceiling, 

Glow  through  the  sickroom,  its  tawdry  and 
du^-^lained 

Meanness  revealing. 

Silent    he    dreams,    fetched    out   upon    a 
mattress 

With   eyelids  closed  and  waxen  hands  to- 
gether, 

Dreams,    and    a    youth    again,    bids    death 
defiance. 

Midsummer  weather 

Glimmers    through    rifts    in    the    canopied 

pinetops. 
Glints   on   the  brown   ^eam   that   tumbles 

and  races 
To    join    a    blue    river,    and    lights    up    its 

flowery. 

Precipitous  places. 

Grasshoppers  whirr,  and  the  resinous  carpet 
Springs  at  his  tread,  as  once  more  with  arms 

swinging. 
Free  and  exultant  he  climbs  the  dark  hill- 
tops, 

Splendidly  singing. 


40 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

With  a  sigh  he  awakes ;  from  a  neighbouring 

casement 
Pours  a  piano's  impudent  jangle: 
Down  in  the  courtyard  a  man  and  a  woman 
Bitterly  wrangle. 


41 


SONGS  OF  LA  MOUCHE 
East  and  West. 
Twilight  has  veiled  the  Ea^  in  sundown 

And  the  dun  wold 
Stretches  in  one  unbroken  sheet  away 
To  climb  the  sky:   a  rich  autumnal  day 

Dies  colourless  and  cold. 

Grey  silent  poplars,  ^raight  as  grenadiers, 

Guard  the  King's  way— 
A   long  white   ^eak   that  winds   and    dis- 
appears 
Into  the  darkness,  far  from  hopes  and  fears 
And  joyless  play. 

Though   all  the   Ea^  seems  full  of   quiet 
prayer. 

The  we^  wind  flings 
In  upward  gu^s  the  frolic  of  a  fair, 
A  tinkling  dissonance  and  murky  glare 

Of  booths  and  swings. 

Parisj   September^    1855. 


4* 


SONGS  OF  LA  MOUCHE 

Lullaby. 

A  child  in  the  dark, 
I  am  frightened  and  cold, 

But  the  sound  of  your  voice 
Turns  the  shadows  to  gold. 

At  your  tender  rebuke 

My  night-terrors   cease; 
I  lay  me  down  gently, 


The  soft  words  you  croon 
Are  a  sovereign  charm  j 

As  a  child  in  its  cot 
I  am  happy  and  warm. 


Parisj  1855. 


43 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

You   dominate  my  lighted  thought, 
Even  in  words  that  I  was  taught 
Nightly  to  pray  I  seem  to  hear 
The  long-drawn  chuckle  of  your  sneer. 

And  when  I  lay  me  down  in  bed, 

Your  words  go  trooping  through  my  head, 

Your  kisses  on  my  body  bum 

And  hot  with  shame  I  toss  and  turn. 

You  kiss  my  hands,  you  kiss  my  hair. 
And  when  I  cry  in  my  despair, 
"  God  save  me  from  so  fierce  a  bane," 
I  hear  your  voice  in  mine  again. 

Where  'er   I  go,  what  'er  I   do, 
I  suffer  for  my  thoughts  of  you; 
Mu^  my  tormented  senses  pay 
The  price  of  pity  night  and  day? 

Paris,    1855. 


44 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

When   each  morning  I  awaken, 
Conscience  cries,  "Go  not  again"; 

Every  night  I  boldly  answer, 
*Tis  to  ease  a  heart  in  pain. 

"  Little  fool,  he  cannot  want  thee  "— 
That  may  be,  but  ^11  I  '11  go ; 

For  a  lark  is  gaily  singing 
In  my  heart  once  dumb  with  woe. 

PariSf    1855. 


45 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 
Frau  Mathilde's  Parrot. 

Up  five  long  flights  my  poet  lies, 

Inch   by  inch  his  body  dies; 

No  ray  of  sunshine  lights  the  gloom 

Within   that  solitary  room; 

No  loving  hands  upon  him  wait, 

He  lies  alone  from  dawn  till  late ; 

Each  groan  of  pain,  each  lonely  sigh 

Is  answered  by  a  parrot's  cry. 

There,  when  the  winter's  fitful  light 
Faded  with   on-coming  night. 
His  loneliness  would  find  relief 
In  taunting  my  too  timid  grief; 
With  song  and  ^ory  grave  and  gay 
He  'd  chase  his  gloomy  gho^s  away — 
With  many  a  bitter  je^  defy 
The  world's  malignant  parrot-cry. 

But  when  to  quiet  my  despair 

At  some  rude  word,  he  smoothed  my 

hair, 
And  looped  to  kiss  my  faded  cheek, 
All  the  thoughts  I  dared  not  speak 
Surged  in  a  tempestuous  tide 
Of  wayward  tears— I  could  not  hide 
The  love  I  'd  ^iven  to  deny. 
And  shivered  at  that  parrot's  cry. 

Paris,   1855. 

46 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

When  I  am  old  it  may  be  I  shall  sit, 

The  sober  guardian  of  a  merry  throng, 
Where  one  will  praise  your  passion,  one 
your  wit, 
And    one    the    flood   of   your   melodious 
song. 

Some  tender  maid  will  then  about  me  fling 
Soft  arms,  and  ne^ing,  whisper  in  my  ear, 

"  He  is  my  poet,  for  he  knows  each  thing 
My  lover  loves  to  say  and  I  to  hear." 

But  I  shall  silent  sit,  with  downca^  eyes. 
Intent  upon  my  toil,  with  lips  compressed, 

Fearing  le^  she,  by  love  grown  overwise, 
Divine  the  kindred  tumult  in  my  brea^. 

Paris,  1855. 


47 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

My  love  welled  up  in  a  dry  and  desolate 

land, 
A  hidden  spring  that  trickled  away  unseen, 
Revealed  alone  by  blossoming  bowers  that 

^nd. 

Where  no  blossoms  had  been. 

But  my  tiny  spring  is  swollen  by  summer 

rain 
To  an  open  flood,  and  the  ^agnant  pools 

are  filled 
With  eddying  joy  from  a  torrent  that  races 

to   gain 

The  sea,  and  be  ^lled. 

Flowerets  quicken,  sweet  birds  with  melody 

wake 
The  silent  valley  and  slopes  of  the  echoing 

hills, 
For  over  the  thir^  meadows  fresh  waters 

break 

In  a  thousand  rills. 

So  joy  sprang  up  from  a  temped  of  way- 
ward tears, 

And  my  lonely  life  is  gay  with  awakening 
song: 

Open  and  unashamed  my  love  appears 
Careless  and  ^ong. 

Paris,  1856, 
48 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

Thin  rain  drifts  across  the  pavement; 

Love   confessed 
Burns,  an  intermittent  fever, 

In   my  brea^. 
Hours  of  joy  bring  nights  of  sorrow: 
I  am  very  tired— to-morrow 

Let  me  re^. 

Will  the  weariness  and  aching 

Never  cease? 
Shall  I  never  from  my  hunger 

Gain  release? 
Grant  to-night  I  may  be  taken, 
Sleep  and  nevermore  awaken, 

Sleep  in  peace. 

Paris,  Fthmaryj  1856. 


49 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

I  heard  them  say,  "  He  died  la^  night," 
Paused  on  the  threshold,  drawn  and  white, 
Entered  that  dear  familiar  room; 
Two  candles  on  the  curtained  gloom 
Ca^  orange  light. 

Beside  his  bed,  in  my  wonted  chair 
I  took  my  place;   but  he  lay  there. 
Stiff  and  ^aight  from  head  to  feet, 
Half  revealed  through  a  winding  sheet. 
In  the  heavy  air. 

No  petulant  greeting,  no  sombre  je^,  t 

Silent,  his  hands  crossed  over  his  brea^, 
He  lay,  the  carven  monument 
Of  a  warrior,  whose  la^  bolt  is  spent, 
Taking  his  re^. 

Maje^c  in  death's  ^ern  array, 
Wrapped  in  a  passionless  calm  he  lay — 
A  danger  usurping  my  lover's  place — 
I  could  not  weep,  but  covered  his  face 
And  went  my  way. 

February  \7th^   1856. 


50 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

My  soul  revolves  in  helpless  grief, 

Alone,  a  prey  to  pain, 
In  quivering  silence  I  am  scourged 

Back  to  my  fault  again. 

For  as  a  harassed  mother  waits, 
Nor  havens  to  her  baby's  bed, 

Negledling   his  familiar  wail, 
And  coming,  finds  her  infant  dead, 

So  I,  who  tarried  at  Love*s  call, 
Mu^  bear  that  bitter  ^ng. 

And  at  the  la^  his  spirit  found 
My  love  a  faithless  thing. 

February   ISthj   1856. 


51 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

Ye^erday   to   the  grave  they  silently  bore 

him, 
Chanting  no  lament  of  the  children  of  Zion, 
Mass,    nor    prayer,    nor    word    of    farewell 

greeting 

Said  they  at  parting. 

I,  alone,  his  passionate  servant  unbidden. 
Dare  not  veil  my  face  nor  cry  for  pity. 
Dare    not    creep    for    a    moment   aside    to 
bewail  him. 

Shaken  with  sorrow. 

But,  when  the  twilight  thickens,  with  lamp 

unlighted, 
Aching    I    lie    on    my   lonely    bed    in    the 

darkness. 
Prone    and    swept    by    gu^s    of     familiar 

weeping. 

Toss  until  day-dawn. 

February  21sf,   1856. 


5» 


SONGS   OF  LA  MOUCHE 

Anniversary. 

I  dreamt  I  through  a  cemetery  went, 
Where  lay  the  dead  it  seemed  so  hard  to 
lose, 
And  by  each  tomb^one,  mound  and  monu- 
ment. 
Stood   a  down-trodden,  du^-^ined  pair 
of  shoes. 

And   one   beside  me  whispered,  "Do   not 
weep, 

They  but  await  the  call  that  mu^  begin 
Another  day;  each  body  here  doth  sleep 

Throughout  the  night,  as  at  a  quiet  Inn. 

"  Though  many  fell  asleep  with  tired  eyes, 

Stained  by  the  du^  on  life's  malodorous 

way, 

With  that  new  dawn  each  traveller  will  arise, 

Cleansed   and  refreshed  to  face  another 

day." 

February   17  th,   1857. 


53 


Songs  of  la  mouche 


Envoy. 


At  length  beside  the  ^lagnant  quay, 

Like  some  tall  ship  to  harbour  brought, 

The  sport  of  a  tempestuous  sea, 
I  wait  my  end;  nor  care  I  aught 
Whate  'er  it  be. 

For  Time  his  mouldering  havoc  plays. 
And  Duty  ^ffens  roving  wings, 

The  sluggish  peace  of  measured  da5rs. 
Like  sodden  weed  about  me  clings. 

But  when  the  dying  year  grows  cold, 
Old  wounds  reopen;  once  again 

I  face  the  ^ormy  days  of  old. 

When  persecution,  sorrow  and  pain 
Were  lined  with  gold. 

Steering  a  half -remembered  course, 
My  vagrant  fancy  tacks  and  veers, 

Swung  by  an  unknown  current's  force, 
Defle<5led  by  forgotten  fears. 

And  drifting  on,  I  find  no  clue 

To  my  Grange  life's  disordered  plan; 
Were   ^orms  so  fierce?    was  heaven  so 
blue? 
Now  all  is  grey,  I  wonder  can 
My  tale  be  true? 

Rouetiy  1885. 
54 


SEEDTIME  AND 
HARVEST 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

In  the  beginning  God  created  man, 

Perfect  in  all  things,  Lord  of  land  and  sea : 

So  close  the  creature  to  Creator  ran, 
It  seemed  a  form  to  ape  divinity. 

From  Adam's  side  a  rib  He  therefore  took. 
And  making  woman  halved  that  form 
divine : 
Who  now  would  on  God's  perfecft  image 
look 
Mu^  every  grace  of  man  and  ntiaid 
combine. 

The  severed  halves  of  man's  once  perfedl 
soul. 

Dwelling  apart,  their  wailing  never  cease 
Till  they  be  joined  in  one  primeval  whole, 

And  in  reunion  find  eternal  peace. 


57 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

Above  the  Church,  above  the  clock, 
The  haughty  gilded  weathercock 
Swings  upon  a  towering  ^eeple, 
Beacon  to  a  lowland  people. 

Facing  windward,  there  it  Elands, 
And  overlooks  the  windswept  lands, 
But  cannot  watch  the  seaward  gale 
Strike  the  peaceful  flapping  sail. 

To  every  wind  it  crows  in  scorn, 
"  I  can  tell  vrhere  you  w^re  born :  *' 
The  tinie^  breeze  can  secret  keep 
Where  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep. 

Am  I  denned  to  remain 
An   ever  veering  weather-vane, 
Swnng  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Whither  I  can  never  know? 


58 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

I  am  loved  by  little  children: 
Happy  girl  and  laughing  boy 

Ca^  their  tender  arms  around  me, 
Clamorous   with   joy. 

Baby  waking  out  of  slumber 

To  a  solitary  land 
Gathers   open-eyed   contentment 

From  my  out-fetched  hand. 

On  my  arm,  he  ^lls  his  sorrow, 
At  my  brea^  his  wailings  cease 

To  be  loved  by  little  children 
Brings  me  hope  and  peace. 


59 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

When  the  copse  is  grey  with  bud, 
And  spring  is  surging  in  my  blood, 
Year  by  year  beneath  the  hill 
I  sought  a  simple  for  my  ill. 

Blushing  at  a  word  o'erbold, 
Praying  when  the  world  seemed  cold, 
Lovelier  of  flowers  to  me 
Was  the  wood  anemone. 

On  simple  homely  cares  intent, 
A  spring  of  passive  self-content 
Led  me  where  among  the  kine 
Gleams   the  golden  celandine. 

Yellow  primroses  that  vie 
With  the  dawn  tints  of  the  sky; 
Violets  with  a  joyous  sense 
Of  hidden,  scented  opulence; 

Palm  that  on  a  leafless  tree 
Flowers  foretelling  Calvary, 
Each  has  caught  a  fleeting  mood 
Of  my  budding  womanhood. 

Doomed  a  maid  to  dwell  apart, 
Within  my  solitary  heart. 
When  bitter  milk-^eams  upward  surge, 
I  go  to  pluck  the  woodland  spurge. 


60 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

Long  ago  I  used  to  pray 

To  be  loved  and  to  be  wooed, 

Spotlessly    as   maidens   may, 
Ignorant  of  motherhood. 

Now  I  am  to  woman  grown. 
Love  seems  but  an  idle  mood, 

For  I  hear  in  every  tone 
Overtures  to  motherhood. 

And  I  lie  and  pray  to  thee, 
Mary  Virgin,  pure  and  good. 

Thou  can^  calm  the  raging  sea, 
Still  my  cry  for  motherhood. 

Grant  my  breads  may  yield  reply 
To  an  infant's  cry  for  food; 

May  his  dimpled  fingers  lie 
On  those  springs  of  motherhood. 

I  would  brave  the  hideous  pain 
Of  thy  death-watch  by  the  rood, 

If  by  sorrow  I  could  gain 
That  fierce  joy  of  motherhood. 


6i 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

Within  my  arms  my  lord  becomes  a  little 

child, 
And  softly  as  a  nurseling  babe  on  mother's 

brea^ 
Lays  on  my  shoulder  his  dear  head,  and 

sinks  to  re^ 
With  limbs  relaxed,  in  my  embrace  to  sleep 

beguiled. 

With    equal    breath    my   bosom    rocks    his 

cradled  head. 
My  pulses  learn  in  true  accord  with  joy  to 

beat. 
Straight   grow  the  sombre   winding  ways, 

and  at  my  feet 
My    narrow   path   with    starry   flowers   like 

heaven  is  spread. 

And  I  who  am  so  little  worth,  so  poor  and 

weak. 
Alone  about  the  source  of  life  my  watch 

can  keep, 
Hold    in    my    arms    the    labouring    world 

subdued  to  sleep. 
As  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand  I  hold  his 

cheek. 


62 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

No  longer,  when  the  cold  and  sterile  moon 

Paces  her  virgin  watch  across  the  sky, 
Calling  the  hours  of  life's  long  afternoon, 

Mu^  I  from  out  the  deep  in  answer  cry. 
With   rhythmic   tides   she   swept   the   fore- 
shoreland, 
Whereon  I  often  set  my  heart's  desire, 
Leaving  a  barren  ^ip  of  watery  sand, 

A  mirror  for  the  moon's  cha^e  silver  fire. 
For  I  have  built  a  barrier  'gain^  the  sea: 
No   more  the  moon-swept  tide  my  fruit 
devours ; 
The  seed  is  set,  and  in  security, 

I  watch  the  silent  passage  of  life's  hours. 
May    that   sea-wall    till   harve^-time 

abide, 
Steadfa^    again^    the    ever    recess 
tide. 


63 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

To  her  there  came  at  dawn,  as  she  lay  ^11, 
A  seins€  of  moth -wings  fluttering  in  the  dark ; 
Then  the  swift  ^oke  of  the  imprisoned  lark, 
Beating  his  lowly  cage;  whereat  a  thrill 
Shot  through  her  members,  and  as  clouds 

di^l 
In  heavy  drops,  unloaded  by  a  spark. 
She   wept  for  joy,   though   she   mu^  now 

embark 
Upon  that  lonely  journey  fraught  with  ill. 

Yet  never  word  she  spake  to  him  that  lay 
Beside  her:  but  her  carriage  was  so  proud, 
Her  secret  became  plain,  as  it  may  be 
A  child  reveals  some  hidden  joy  in  play : 
She  bore  herself  as  if  she  were  endowed! 
A  tabernacle  for  some  my^ery. 


64 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

The  fir^  fruits  of  a  pregnant  soul's  increase 
Like  little  flames  of  newly-kindled  fire 
Lie  on  life's  threshold  neare^  unto  death; 
And  her  life  ebbs  till  she  encompasseth 
The  tender  offspring  of  fulfilled  desire 
And  sinks  into  impenetrable  peace. 


Sleep,  my  darling,  naught  can  harm  thee, 
May  no  sudden  fear  alarm  thee. 
Let  my  singing  rock  thy  slumber. 

Baby,  sleep! 

Once  within  a  lowly  manger, 
Mary  hid  our  Lord  from  danger: 
Soft  and  silent  swings  thy  cradle, 

Baby,  sleep! 

God  shall  hold  thee  in  His  keeping, 
Angel-wings  about  thee  sleeping, 
Sleep,  my  darling.  Lord  and  ma^er, 

Baby,  sleep! 


65 


SEEDTIME  AND  HARVEST. 

A  sparkling  coldness  in  the  morning  air 
Proclaims    the   death   of   summer;   without 

fear, 
I  greet  this  herald  of  the  dying  year, 
Whose   icy  breath  cries ;  "  Winter  comes ! 

Prepare ! " 
Let  winter  come;  for  though  the  wold  be 

bare, 
My  com  is  garnered:  now  the  leaves  are 

sere, 
E^ch   orchard-twig   droops  with  its  russet 

tear, 
And  I  greet  winter  with  a  harve^  prayer. 

The  recess  hopes  of  spring  have  dropped 

away 
In  fruitful  generation,  and  desire 
Died  with  the  virgin  petals'  snowy  fall. 
But  many  a  fruitful  hour  and  glorious  day 
Close  soul  to  soul,  beside  the  evening  fire, 
We  celebrate  with  harve^  fe^val. 


66 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

He  .  .  . 

I  have  wandered  round  an  Empire 
To  the  kingdom  whence  it  grew, 

And  the  coa^-line  of  my  country 
Flashes  white  between  the  blue. 

Blue  the  sky  and  blue  the  water, 

And  a  ruddy  little  town 
Ne^les  in  a  sunny  hollow 

Underneath   the  windy  down. 

In  that  town  a  winding  alley 

Leads  into  a  little  square 
With  an  almond-tree  in  blossom, 

And  I  know  my  home  is  there. 

Home  and  country,  kingdom,  Empire, 

All  the  universe  to  me 
Is  a  little  laughing  woman 

In  her  brown  room  by  the  sea. 


69 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 
She  .  .  . 

In  my  copse  a  blackbird  whiles, 
Whiles  like  a  saucy  boy: 

Rain-drops  glitter  in  the  sunshine- 
Sorrow  turned  to  joy. 

Rain  and  sun  have  swelled  my  lilacs, 
Golden  leaf  and  purple  flower, 

And  my  longing  turns  to  you-ward 
Set  by  sun  and  shower. 

Come,  my  lilacs  are  in  blossom, 
Come,  and  to  my  dwelling  bring 

Joy  that  makes  the  happy  blackbird 
Harbinger  of  Spring. 


70 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 


He  . 


About  an  upland  meadow 
A  vagrant  cuckoo  cried; 
From  far  below  came  dealing 
The  whisper  of  the  tide; 

And  my  words  had  died  away, 

I  watched  you  as  you  lay 

With  your  hands  among  the  cowslips 

In  the  idle  month  of  May. 

Low  down  upon  the  housetops 

A  dusky  orange  moon 
Glows  at  the  heart  of  Midnight 
Through  the  purple  haze  of  June. 
As  my  dreams  go  sailing  by, 
I  kiss  you  as  you  lie 
With  your  hands  among  the  cowslips, 
And  I  hear  the  Cuckoo  cry. 


71 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

She  .  .  . 

Grey  flowed  the  river,  high  up  in  the  sky 
Flocculent   clouds  hung  silver-grey: 
Cool  and  clean  the  wind  went  by 
With  a  scent  of  spring,  when  you  and  I 
Made  holiday. 

You  found  an  inn  where  the  river's  bow 
Encloses  a  garden  of  sandy  weeds; 
And  a  ferryman's  boat  plies  to  and  fro 
From   bank  to  bank,  and  kingcups  glow 
In  the  yellow  reeds. 

We  climbed  the  wood  to  an  open  space 
And  looked  on  a  valley  clothed  in  green, 
With  a  poplar  fringe  of  orange  lace ; 
No  drifting  shadow  marred  the  face 
Of  that  happy  scene. 

We  watched  the  horizontal  light 

Of  the  sunset  silver  each  shallow  pool— 

And  wondered,  at  home  in  the  city  that 

night 
Was  ever  a  day  of  rich  delight 
So   calm  and  cool. 


72 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

He  .  .  . 

La^  night  there  came  a  dream  that  it  was 

day, 
Day,  where  tall  houses  shut  the  darkness  in, 
Where  noise  and  tumult  at  the  dawn  begin. 
And   with   the   dawn  all  peace  has   passed 

away. 

Half  dreaming  I  awoke  and  could  regain 
No  sunlit  memory  of  our  re^ng-place, 
No  vision  of  your  happy  up-turned  face. 
Rippling  like  meadow-grass  before  the  rain. 

Then  through  my  bedroom  window  poured 

the  sun, 
A  lark  sang,  and  a  soft  wind  from  the  south 
Stirring  the  leaves,  and  salt  upon  my  mouth, 
Told  me  our  golden  day  had  scarce  begun. 


73 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

She  .  .  . 

Would  you  might  bear  me  away! 

You,  my  companion  and  friend! 
Into  a  land  where  the  day 

No  parting  could  end! 

There  with  no  thought  but  of  you 
Softly  the  white  hours  would  pass, 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  with  the  dew 
On  the  untrodden  grass. 

Never  a  thought  would  I  hide, 
And,  when  night  covered  the  land, 

You  would  draw  close  to  my  side, 
And  perhaps  touch  my  hand. 


74 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

He  .  .  . 

I  rode  in  gathering  twilight, 

Through  mi^  and  wind  and  rain, 

By  valley  and  by  hill-side, 
Across  the  darkening  plain. 

Almo^  despair  had  caught  me, 
And  courage  in  me  died, 

When  you,  it  seemed,  Beloved, 
Rode  onward  at  my  side. 

The  full  moon  to  the  eastward 
Swept  from  a  cloudy  screen, 

Whitened  the  rain-swept  meadows. 
Glittered   on   summer-green. 

About  the  water-courses, 

The  mi^  in  cloudlets  streamed, 

Like  nymphs  from  out  a  fountain, 
And  silver  elders  gleamed. 

With  jojrfulness  and  wonder, 
My  feet  grew  light  as  air, 

My  wheels  were  winged,  and  gaily 
I  sped,  for  you  were  there. 


75 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 
She  .  .  . 

Deep  within  me  springs  a  fountain, 
Leaping   upward  to  the  sunlight, 
At  the  sport  of  little  breezes 
Rudely  scattered. 

Deare^,  all  my  veering  sorrows 
In  your  warmth  are  turned  to  beauty, 
And  the  clear  spring  of  my  longing 
Sobbing  gently, 

Ever  con^nt,  gay  or  tearful, 
Breaks  to  dewdxops  in  the  sunshine. 
Falling  back  into  my  bosom. 
Rainbow  tinted. 


76 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

He  .  .  . 

Deep  runs  a  silent  music 

Through  my  laborious  days: 

I  set  your  name,  Beloved, 
To  a  hundred  thousand  lays. 

The  clang  of  a  di^nt  organ 
At  the  corner  leaps  and  falls. 

I  go  my  way  rejoicing. 
In  the  love  that  it  recalls. 

Through  the  din  of  many  journeys 
A  song  within  me  peals, 

To  a  running  bass  of  the  rattle, 
The  endless  roar  of  wheels. 


77 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 
She  .  .  . 

High  upon  the  hill  you  slumber; 

I  sit  watching  by  your  side, 
Coloured  figures  without  number, 

Through  the  checkered  lowland  glide. 

Far  off  in  a  shallow  runnel, 
Silently  the  brown  trains  pass, 

Slip  to  earth  within  the  tunnel. 
Like  a  blind-worm  in  the  grass. 

Down  the  white  road  by  the  river 
Like  a  hawk  a  quick  wheel  skims. 

And  the  darting  sunbeams  quiver, 
Flashing  from  its  silver  rims. 

Far  from  trouble  you  are  sleeping. 

New-created  to  arise: 
Watch  beside  you  I  am  keeping, 

Calm  as  Eve  in  Paradise. 


78 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 


He  .  . 


Hid  from  sight  of  pa^bire  lands, 
Behind  the  Church  a  yew-tree  ^ands, 
Banished  from  the  cheerful  fields, 
For  the  deadly  fruit  it  yields. 

Year  by  year  it  waxes  tall. 
Hemmed  within  the  Church-yard  wall; 
For  the  Church  mu^  ever  keep 
Poisoned  fruit  from  silly  sheep. 

Without  a  knot  its  branches  grow, 
Each  to  form  a  yeoman's  bow. 
Evergreen  and  never  old. 
For  they  spring  from  churchyard  mould. 

A  solitary  from  the  throng, 
I  fashion  weapons  for  the  ^ong: 
But  every  thought  within  my  head 
Has  its  roots  among  the  dead. 


79 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

She  .  .  . 

Willows  are  white  as  a  breath  upon  silver 

Beneath  a  dark  sky: 
On  a  grey  wa^e  of  waters  the  promise  of 
summer 

Floats   eddying  by. 

And  the  ne^  that  we  built  in  the  grass  by 
the  river, 

The  home  of  our  dream, 
Far  from  men,  where  we  sang  through  the 
soft  summer  weather 

Lies  under  the  ^ream. 

Come  quickly,  the  night  will  bring  silence 
and  darkness 

To  cover  my  tears 
And  ^ars  will  shine  brighter  above  the  dark 
waters 

And   shadowy  weirs. 


80 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 

He  .  .  . 

I  gallop,  I  gallop  along, 

To  save  you  from  death  or  from  shame. 
The  burden  and  lilt  of  my  song, 

Beloved,  you  cried  and  I  came. 

Why  trouble  to  find  the  world's  way? 

As  I  gallop,  I  gallop  along; 
One  look  in  your  eyes  will  repay 

The  whispers  and  jeers  of  the  throng. 

Do  I  hurry  to  save  you  from  wrong? 

From  the  claws  of  some  treacherous 
bea^  ? 
Or  gallop  and  gallop  along, 

The  one  bidden  gue^  at  your  fea^? 

To   the  rhythm  of  galloping  feet. 
Urgent,  pulsating  and  ^ong. 

My  heart  sets  your  name  to  the  beat, 
As  I  gallop,  I  ijallop  along. 


SUN  AND  SHOWER 
She  .  .  . 

A  wood-fire  bright  and  candle-light 
Ca^  golden  shadows  on  the  gloom. 

You  came,  my  dear,  and  with  you  fear 
Fled  from  the  comers  of  my  room. 

My  sad  heart  swells  with  gladness:  bells 
Ring  peace  to  earth  and  mercy  mild 

On  Chri^hnas-Eve,  and  I  believe 
With  rapture  like  a  little  child. 

So  year  by  year  for  you,  my  dear, 
I  set  my  radiant  Christmas-tree, 
all,  green  and  ^aight  tc 
My  little  love's  nativity. 


H 


SPRING  DEATH 


Spring  death. 

IN   MEMORY   OF   J.    W., 
who  died  on  Active  Service,  1901 

I  will  bear  forth  my  sorrow  to  the  sun, 
For  dumb  and  cold  I  sit  at  home  with  grief. 
Eddies  of  spring-tide  through  the  dark  limbs 

run 
Of  this  foul  city,  over  park  and  square 
Ripple  in  golden  leaf. 
Each  solitary  tree,  once  dank  and  bare, 
Poised  in  a  fluttering  skirt  of  gauzy  green, 
Whirls  to  the  rh3rthm  of  awakening  earth; 
Through  murky  lane  and  highway  throbs  a 

clean 
Bass  note  of  birth. 

The    chestnut    spreads    her   fingers    to    the 

breeze. 
Adorned    with    perfumed    candles    for    the 

fea^. 
Once    more   the   little   murmurs   haunt   the 

trees, 
And  all  that  buds  has  ca^  the  pall  of  sleep. 
From  grimy  bonds  released. 
Over  the  churchyard  paling,  lilacs  peep, 
E^ch  golden  leaflet  quick  with  gentle  rain. 
And  all  the  world  that  once  was  tired  and 

old. 
Decked  out  with  new  desires,  grows  young 

again, 
Lilac  and  gold. 


SPRING  DEATH 

But  death  has  dipped  me  bare  of  all  desire : 
An  outca^  from  earth's  generous  fe^val, 
I  go  to  warm  me  by  the  altar  fire, 
Whereat    we    worshipped.    Happy   little 

shrine — 
Soft  garlands  on  the  wall, 
The  music  and  the  laughter  and  the  wine, 
Talk,  like  a  fountain  pulsing  to  the  blue, 
To  fall  in  rainbow  droplets  on  the  grass, 
Warm    human    joys— they    shall    my    heart 

renew, 
They  cannot  pass. 

What  shadow  haunts  that  dear  familiar  room 
And,  like  a  night-bird  poised  on  silent  wing. 
Hovers  upon  the  violet-scented  gloom? 
Our  in^uments  of  joy  lie  untouched  there 
And,   scarcely  whispering, 
We  say  not  what  we  would  but  all  w^e  dare, 
Quelling  the  tumult  of  forbidden  tears; 
No  more  to  wander  with  the  roving  throng. 
Bowed    by    resentment    for    remembered 

years — 
Our  years  of  song. 

Together    through    the    blue    transparent 

nights. 
Together    through    the   hum    of   London 

^eets. 
Our  path  was  like  a  garden  gay  with  lights. 
Tall  lilies  among  tulips  gold  and  red; 

86 


SPRING  DEATH 

Where  with  insi^ent  beats 

Love    called,   and   all   the   world   a-try^ng 

sped. 
Beneath  the  whispering  plane-trees  passion 

burned, 
Glowed  like  illumined  green  in  every  brea^, 
Then    piping   happy   songs   we   homeward 

turned. 
Turned  home  to  re^. 

Over  the  housetop  climbs  a  cowslip  moon, 
To  join  the  expecftant  company  of  ^lars. 
New-risen— And  I  little  care  how  soon 
My  feet  turn  homeward  by  familiar  ways. 
No  fellowship  unbars 
That  narrow  dwelling,  where  the  measured 

days 
Pass,  and  leave  naught  to  show  that  they 

are  fled. 
I  am  grown  weary,  and  to  me  alone 
Love  pipes  a  foolish  tune,  for  thou  art  dead, 
And  youth  is  gone. 


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